


All For the Love (of You)

by sarahandthegraveyardshift



Series: Daisy, Daisy [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Chris is a tech wizard, M/M, Peter is an alpha, Soulmates, Stiles is a cyborg, details of daddy kink, details of roleplay, explicit sexual details, forced into sex work, they are both badasses that save their soulmate from some serious shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 02:55:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21067631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahandthegraveyardshift/pseuds/sarahandthegraveyardshift
Summary: Stiles doesn't believe in miracles. He's spent the last 384 days in The Red Den as one of the most requested companions. Fighting has gotten him nothing but pain and attempts at re-wiring his circuitry, which is impossible (the re-writing part, not the pain—pain is all that's possible here). Chris rebuilt nearly half of his body after the accident. Stiles is the most advanced cyborg this side of the universe, and no one in their right mind would let him be used for something like this if they knew that.Even when he's called to the lobby of the den and comes face-to-face with Peter and Chris, he doesn't believe. Because he's been praying for this moment for so long that it can't possibly be real.





	All For the Love (of You)

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, hi! Hello! Welcome! 
> 
> I hope you are doing so, so well today!! Have you taken some deep breaths? Had some water and a yummy food? Are you keeping warm? Or cool? You are so important! Take care of yourself, friend!
> 
> So, this story has been in the making for a VERY long time..The idea popped into my head as I was writing another Stetopher fic, so I had to set it aside for a while, but here it is! And I hope it is great! Or at least a little good. ;)
> 
> For time-frame reference, I imagine Stiles is around twenty-five here. They don't live in Beacon Hills anymore, which is why there aren't any mentions of the Scooby gang.
> 
> Enjoy!

i.

Peter parks the car, and Chris sighs from the passenger seat. 

“Do we really need to do this again, Peter?” 

The Alpha's fingers tighten on the steering wheel, and he closes his eyes. “I'm not giving up.”

“It's been a year.” Chris reaches over, stopping an inch from Peter's thigh as the man tenses. He pulls his hand back. “I don't want to give up either.”

“Then why are we discussing this?” Peter snarls, stepping out of the car and slamming the door closed before shoving clenched fists into his jacket pockets. 

“Because,” Chris murmurs into the quiet of the car, knowing that Peter will hear him, “every time we don't find him, it kills me.”

Peter stops short on the sidewalk, shoulders sagging while he waits expectantly. Chris stares at him through the raindrops on the windshield, then sighs and unbuckles his seat belt.

ii.

Stiles doesn't believe in miracles. 

He's spent the last 384 days in _The Red Den_ as one of the most requested companions. Fighting has gotten him nothing but pain and attempts at re-wiring his circuitry, which is impossible (the re-writing part, not the pain—pain is _all_ that's possible here). Chris rebuilt nearly half of his body after the accident. Stiles is the most advanced cyborg this side of the universe, and no one in their right mind would let him be used for something like this if they knew that. 

But they don't. Because Stiles is also the biggest kept secret this side of the universe. Advanced enough that it takes a trained eye to tell he isn't fully human—a trained eye that found him on his way to his bookshop and plucked him off the street so quickly that no one had noticed.

No one but the soulmates waiting for him at home.

He's played along to survive. Punishments are brutal and unforgiving. No one would bat an eye if a cyborg showed up in a dumpster with half his circuitry ripped out of him. And with their location software, shitty and low-tech as it is, he can't step more than ten feet from the den without security knowing.

So Stiles doesn't believe in miracles—who would after the nightmare he's been through? Even when he's called to the lobby of the den and comes face-to-face with Peter and Chris, he doesn't believe. Because he's been praying for this moment for so long that it can't possibly be real. The human half of his brain has finally given in to insanity, and he's seeing what he most desires.

Calmly and carefully he looks between both men, ignoring the shock and hope he sees on their faces and uttering the words he's come to hate more than anything in the world.

iii.

“How can I please you today, Sirs?”

Bile rises in Chris's throat, and a low, angry noise vibrates in Peter's chest.

“Peter.” Chris almost chokes on the name, fingers deftly gliding along the man's arm. “Not here.”

Peter's eyes burn red. “Take him to the car.”

“Peter—”

The Alpha bangs a clawed fist on the front desk, and Chris huffs with agitation, striding forward then guiding Stiles towards the front door. The clerk behind the desk takes a step back warily, hitting a panic button nearby, and suddenly the room is overcrowded with burly men holding guns.

Chris and Stiles slip out just as the fighting starts.

iv.

Peter slumps into the drivers seat covered in blood. “Cameras,” he says breathlessly, starting the car and backing out onto the street as if nothing grotesque has just occurred. 

Chris is already tapping away on his laptop in the backseat beside Stiles, who sits motionless and quiet. 

“Security footage for the entire block has been erased, and I've disabled their tracking software,” Chris states clinically, closing his laptop and setting it aside. “The outer walls of the den are soundproof, so there's not much of a chance anyone heard anything.” He purses his lips and glances at Stiles. “Even if anyone did call the police, it's unlikely they would come to this part of town.”

Peter glances in the rear-view mirror. “How is he?”

Hollow. Empty. Void. A cybernetic zombie ambling on metal and bone, wire and blood. 

Chris settles on: “Unresponsive. I won't know more until we get him home.”

Peter nods and drives. 

And drives. 

And drives. 

v.

They drive for almost a day. Peter and Chris exhaustedly switch out every few hours, taking turns dozing in the backseat beside Stiles. 

He wants desperately to wrap his arms around them, lay their heads on his shoulder and card his fingers through their hair.

His hands twitch. Itch. Tingle. 

He makes himself very, very still.

Peter's car pulls into a familiar driveway, and a gust of pent-up, nervous energy sloughs off the older men. 

“We're home, Stiles,” Chris says gently as he's led from the car and anxiously ushered inside. Paranoia, desperation. Misery, rage. It permeates the stale air in the house-once-home. 

Stiles has to barricade his processor as memories and emotions flood his internal storage. He'd been so careful to keep them hidden, shadowed, safe safe safe. 

He can't let a stupid thing like hope claw its way inside. The deeper hope has its hooks in, the more it can tear away when it's taken. 

Standing in the living room he hasn't seen for so long makes him want to choke on his own vomit. 

“Stiles,” Peter says carefully, and the back of his neck prickles. “Can I get you anything? Are you hungry?”

_Yes._

“Thirsty?”

_Always._

“I do not require anything, Sir. Thank you.” Stiles turns and faces them, well-aware of their gazes as his bones shift beneath tight clothing. He's not dressed for comfort. He's dressed for pleasure. He's dressed like a toy, like something a person can peel the layers off of before brutally fucking against the couch. The doorway. The kitchen counter. The floor. 

Stiles hasn't been fucked in a bed since before the den. The types of men that want his company don't take him to bed. They want fantasy and roleplay and _yes-please-daddy-harder-you're-so-fucking-big-fuck-me-daddy-fill-me-daddy-deeper-deeper-you-feel-so-good-inside-me-please-let-me-come-please-daddy-please._

Empty words. But Stiles had learned early that filthy things from his pretty mouth made them finish faster. The ones that gagged him scared him the most. 

“What services do you desire from me?” he asks, managing to keep his voice steady. 

Peter's jaw tightens, and Chris sighs heavily. 

“Would you please come with me to the study, Stiles?”

“Whatever you wish, Sir.”

vi.

The study is a mess of maps and scattered papers filled with half-thoughts and worthless words. Chris is usually the most organized of them all. The dishevelment sits in Stiles's stomach like a stone. His fingers itch to make it clean, presentable. He wants to purge this room of desperation, of wasted time and effort.

They worked so tirelessly to bring back their soulmate, and all they recovered was a fucked-out husk.

_Garbage,_ the voice in his head hisses. _Filth. Waste of breath._

“Would you like me to tidy in here for you, Sir?”

Another fantasy he'd played out many times—fucking the maid. His clients rarely had much imagination. He hadn't minded the cleaning part. But the outfits were always a little uncomfortable. 

Chris is quiet for a moment. “No. But thank you, Stiles. Will you come with me to the desk, please?”

Stiles can tell Chris is uncomfortable. He's trying so hard to make the young man feel like he isn't being ordered around, like he has a choice. But even polite commands are still just that—commands. 

Stiles follows and sits where he's told. Chris sets down the laptop and rummages through the drawers. The younger man remembers the things they used to do in this room. Kneeling on the floor between Chris's legs and sucking him off while he tried to get work done. Bent over the desk and fucked until the sharp edges made beautiful bruises bloom on his thighs. Riding Chris's cock as they tried to keep their balance in the leather desk chair. 

There are other things. Calmer things. Like reading quietly next to one another. Talking about sports or work or blissful nothing. 

Stiles remembers the filthy things best, though. 

There's a worn copy of _The Princess Bride_ on the desk, and before he can stop himself, Stiles reaches forward and picks the book up. It's the one Chris gave him years ago. The spine is creased so badly that the title is barely legible, and several pages are dog-earred.

For a very long time, this book was his favorite, favorite thing. 

Chris is watching him. 

He sets the book down. “I'm sorry, Sir.”

“Don't be,” the older man pleads. “It's yours. Keep it.”

“I am not allowed to accept gifts.”

“It's not a gift. It belongs to you.”

“I am not allowed to have belongings.”

“Why not?” Chris asks.

And Stiles knows his next words will cause so much pain. “_Things_ are not allowed to have belongings.”

Chris's face goes blank. 

Stiles was right.

“Stiles, you are not a _thing_.”

“Of course, Sir,” the young man agrees softly. “I'm whatever you want me to be.”

Chris abruptly leans forward in his chair and takes Stiles's face in his calloused hands so gently that it makes Stiles want to weep. He hasn't been touched like this, with such reverence and respect, in so long. 

“No, baby,” the older man says huskily. “You're whatever _you_ want to be. You're a person and a soulmate, and Peter and I love you so much.” His voice breaks on the last few words, and tears roll down his stubbled cheeks. He looks tired. And determined. “I'm going to find you. Stiles, where ever you are in there, I'm going to bring you back to us.”

_Promise?_

Stiles almost says the word, almost begs it. He parts his lips and inhales sharply. “Of course, Sir,” he says instead. The words are bland and taste like ash in his mouth. 

Chris leans back, releasing Stiles's face. 

_Please don't go._

He wipes the tears from his cheeks.

_I'll eat you up,_

Clears his throat. 

_I love you so..._

“I'm going to need access to your hard drive. Is that all right?”

“Whatever you wish, Sir.”

Chris purses his lips. He looks like he wants to argue, to say something about Stiles being his own person and having a say in what happens to his body. It doesn't matter. Stiles hasn't believed that for a long time.

“You don't have to call us 'Sir.'” Chris opens his laptop and types until a code program appears on the screen.

“What would you like me to call you?”

_Daddy.  
Daddy. _

_Fuck me.  
Fuck me._

“'Chris' is fine.” The older man connects a long wire to his laptop. “And I'm sure Peter will prefer you call him by his name, as well.”

“Of course.”

“I'm going to insert this into the port behind your ear, okay?”

“Whatever you wish.”

Chris's fingers are cold and shaking. Stiles resists the urge to shiver, to take the man's hands and warm them with his own. He hasn't held a hand since before the den. The closest anyone's come is pinning his wrists. 

He's grateful that Chris can't access his memories. He doesn't want his soulmates subjected to that. They'd only blame themselves. 

Chris types and types, frowning deeper and deeper as the minutes tick by. Stiles knows why. Chris is looking at his own perfect coding—the only part of the young man to make it out of the den untouched. He's seeing his soulmate, intact and whole and just like he remembers. And he's realizing that there is absolutely nothing wrong with Stiles. 

vii.

Stiles stays in the guestroom. Not that he expects Peter and Chris to want him in their bed. But it's kind of lonely. At the den, he slept in a cramped room with several other cyborgs. Most of them were mindless bots, but they were warm. 

His copy of _The Princess Bride_ is on the nightstand, and he clutches it to his chest and shivers under the covers until morning. 

viii.

Stiles comes downstairs in the clothes that Peter picked for him. 

_“Your clothes are still in our closet, Stiles. What would you like to wear?”_

_“Whatever you'd like me to wear, Sir.”_

He's dressed in jeans, a white t-shirt, and a soft plaid flannel. They hang loosely just a bit, but he likes the smell of the detergent in the fabric. 

Chris and Peter are having breakfast in the dining room. There's a third plate of food set out for him. 

“Good morning, Stiles,” Chris says with a gentle smile, setting down his coffee mug. “Are you hungry?”

_Starving._

“I do not require anything, thank you.”

The older men exchange a look. 

“Stiles,” Peter says firmly, “sit down and eat.”

It's a command. Stiles can't disobey without raising suspicion. 

“Of course.” He sits in a familiar chair and picks up a fork. 

Chris frowns. “We can't just order him around, Peter.”

“We're not forcing him to have sex with us, Christopher. We're telling him to eat, something that, by the looks of him, no one has done for a while.”

True. Stiles had been given the bare minimum to stay alive while at the den. The thought alone makes his stomach gurgle, which catches the attention of both men. 

Chris sighs defeatedly and nudges Stiles's plate closer.

“Eat, baby.”

“Of course.”

Peter's scrambled eggs taste like clouds. Stiles finishes his plate.

ix.

Peter is getting angrier by the day. Stiles can see it. He hopes it will be enough to make them realize that the young man they knew is gone, that they'll never get him back. And then maybe they can finally let him go.

Peter's anger only seems to heighten his determination, though. He tries talking to Stiles like he used to, brushing his fingers along Stiles's arm like he used to, smiling at Stiles like he used to. And it nearly works. The young man's mask slips so many times. He laughs at a joke that Peter tells one day, and the older man looks so happy that Stiles almost starts crying. He would give anything to fall back into the ease of life with his soulmates. 

What would be so wrong with that?

_Everything. _

_Everything about you is wrong. Look at them. They fight about you constantly, now. You're driving them apart. _

_Eventually, they won't even have each other. _

_What are you still doing here?_

x.

The loneliness is too much. It eats at Stiles's insides, makes him grind his teeth and choke on sobs. 

It hurts. So, so bad. 

He startles Peter and Chris by crawling into their bed on the sixth night. They don't say anything. They don't even touch him—take great care to keep their distance. 

But Stiles feels warm between them, the ache is less, and he sighs and sleeps. 

And doesn't dream. 

xi.

Chris hooks him up to the laptop again. Stiles can't exactly refuse, but the more they do this, the more likely it is that they'll discover there really is nothing wrong with him. That his memories are intact and that he's been lying, lying.

_Liar, liar. _

_Pants on fire. _

_They'll hang you from a telephone wire. _

_Hate you, hate you. _

_Liar, liar._

He clenches his jaw and keeps his mind still until Chris sighs and detaches the wires from Stiles's circuitry. “Thank you, Stiles,” he says, though there is little gratitude behind the words. Just sadness. And frustration.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asks, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Chris watches him carefully, taking his time to answer. “Not yet. But I hope we do soon.”

Stiles nods somberly like he agrees.

He doesn't, doesn't. 

_Liar, liar._

xii.

Peter calls an old family friend of the Hales named Nathanial. He attended their soulmate-bonding ceremony several years ago. He's also the surgeon who helped bring Stiles back after the accident. And when Chris hits a wall (metaphorically, but Stiles can see the physical urge to do so building as each day passes), they reach out to the only other person who might be able to help. 

Nathanial arrives the next afternoon with a small travel bag, hugging Chris and Peter and smiling at Stiles like he's offering his sympathies. 

“Stiles. It's good to see you.”

The young man doesn't know what to say to that, so he stays quiet, glancing between the men as they murmur quietly before Nathanial turns back to him, sympathetic smile back in place.

“Do you mind if you and I speak in private, Stiles?” 

“Whatever you wish, Sir.”

Nathanial shares a look with Chris and Peter before saying, “I'd prefer to have your permission.”

“I do not require to be asked permission, Sir.”

“Stiles, I'm asking whether I have your permission to speak with you in the other room. I just need an answer.”

Stiles knows what Nathanial is doing, trying to force him to make an actual decision. They must know he's too smart for that—he can talk in circles for hours.

“What answer do you desire, Sir?” His answers are getting dangerously more intimate. If he asks Nathanial how he'd like to fuck him, will he stop asking questions?

“I desire the answer you want to give me.”

_Tricky._

_Smart._

_Wants you. Wants you._

_Fuck him. Fuck him._

Stiles sees now. Nathanial wants to know how smart he is. No cyborg without free will is going to play the games that the young man is.

Shit.

“Then my answer is yes, Sir.”

Nathanial nods. He still looks unsure as he leads Stiles into Chris's study.

xiii.

“Stiles, do you remember me?”

There is a comfortable couch in the study near the bookcase, where Nathanial seats them both. Stiles remembers reading his favorite books on this couch. Cuddling on this couch. Being fucked from both ends on this couch.

“I'm sorry, Sir. I don't,” Stiles lies. 

The older man looks a little sad, which makes Stiles feel guilty. But he can't break now. Not after everything.

“That's okay,” Nathanial says sincerely, reaching into his bag and pulling out a hand-held device with a long cord wrapped around it. Stiles recognizes it as a coder. Not exactly legal. But neither is being an unregistered cyborg. “Stiles, I'm going to check your internal storage and ask you some questions. Is that okay?”

“Of course, Sir.”

“You can call me Nathan.”

“Whatever you wish.”

Nathanial sighs and unravels the cord, leaning forward and inserting the end into the port behind Stiles's left ear. His hands are warm, and the young man resists the urge to lean into the sensation. “I'm sorry if this is a little uncomfortable. It'll only take a few moments.”

Minutes tick by. Stiles watches Nathanial's frown grow deeper and deeper as he realizes what Chris had several days ago. 

“Can you tell me your full name?”

“My name is whatever you'd like it to be.”

Nathanial's face goes blank for a short moment, before he gives the young man a sharp look. It's what Stiles remembers as his _no-nonsense_ look.

“Can you tell me how many sexual partners you've had this past year?”

“I cannot disclose information about clients.”

Nathanial pauses. “Stiles...The people you were intimate with—they weren't clients.”

Stiles knows that.

“They paid to have sex with you.”

Stiles knows that, too.

“And I need you to understand that what happened to you constitutes as rape.”

Stiles knows. 

He knows, he knows, he knows. 

And it takes everything in him not to react. Because he just wants to cry, to let everything go. 

_You don't deserve peace. _

_You don't deserve anything._

“I know,” Stiles says without thinking, clenching his jaw and averting his gaze.

“You do?” Nathanial asks. His voice is gentle, and it makes the young man's throat close around a sob.

He swallows and fights down the panic. “Some clients request roleplay. That is a service I provide.”

The color drains from Nathanial's face. “Roleplay?”

“I can scream for you, Sir,” Stiles says mechanically, hating himself for so many reasons. But most of all his filthy tongue. “I can cry. Beg you to stop. Struggle. Would you like that, Sir?”

“Stiles!” Nathanial says sharply, and the young man closes his mouth with an audible _snap_ of his teeth. Nathanial is shaking. He looks sad. And angry. “Stiles,” the man says again, and it's quieter this time, but still full of repressed rage. “Why are you doing this?”

Stiles swallows. “I'm not sure I understand, Sir.”

_Liar. Liar._

“If something is wrong, I can help you. If the people who took you captive did something, I'll fix it. I just need you to _tell me_ that something is wrong.”

_Wrong. Wrong._

“That you're still in there.”

_Hate you. Hate you._

“Please.”

A tear slides down Stiles's cheek, and Nathanial wipes it away with trembling fingers and offers a hopeful smile.

Stiles draws in an agonizing breath. “I'm sorry,” he whispers. “I don't think I can offer you what you're asking for.”

xiv. 

Stiles leaves the study with Nathanial close behind. Chris and Peter are pacing the living room, and Stiles knows they haven't heard anything—the study is sound-proofed. Peter could probably hear them if he strained his ears enough. But he knows the importance of privacy.

“Stiles, I'm going to talk with Peter and Chris. Is it all right if I have you step into the other room?”

“Of course.”

He walks in a daze towards the kitchen. Peter and Chris reach out and touch his arms as he passes. 

“Why don't you find something to eat, baby,” Chris suggests, and Stiles nods, too afraid that his voice will fail him if he answers. 

He trudges into the kitchen and opens the pantry, his stomach roiling at the thought of food. Nathanial has to know. Stiles can't fool everyone, least of all someone who's been trained to look for symptoms. 

To look for lies. 

Hushed voices waft in from the living room. Stiles tries his hardest to tune them out, to keep himself safe for just a little longer.

Please. Just a little longer. 

But his world is about to collapse all over again.

“What are you thinking?” Chris asks bluntly, and Nathanial sighs.

“I'm thinking,” the doctor says carefully, “there are two possible reasons why Stiles _isn't_ Stiles.” He pauses, and Stiles holds his breath, hand raised halfway to a shelf that has nothing he wants to eat on it. “Either he did this to himself to protect his mind from the traumas he was experiencing...”

Valid. If the young man had figured out how to do that, he probably would have. But Chris's coding is fool-proof—even for Stiles.

“Or?” Peter demands impatiently.

Stiles looks to the back door, counts the steps it will take to get there. He could try moving quietly, but both Peter and Nathanial will hear him before he even touches the door handle. He'll have to run.

“Or,” Nathanial says.

He won't make it far before Peter catches him. But he has to try. Maybe the shock of the truth will stall them long enough for him to get a decent head start.

“There's nothing wrong with him.”

Stiles steels himself.

_Liar, Liar._

He isn't wearing any shoes. 

_Pants on fire._

“What do you mean, nothing wrong with him? Clearly he's not—”

_Hanging from a telephone wire._

“I mean it's fake. He's trying to make you believe he's not himself.”

_Hate you, Hate you._

“No.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“He wouldn't—”

“There's no way—”

_Liar, Liar._

Stiles turns. 

And runs. 

xv. 

Their backyard opens into the yawning forest of the preserve. Stiles makes it past nearly a dozen or so trees before he's caught. He didn't think he'd get very far. 

“Stiles!” Peter begs as the young man pulls away from him. His grip tightens, and he gathers Stiles against his chest, trying to keep him still. “Stiles, stop! What the hell—” 

“Let me go!” Stiles screeches, and Peter immediately releases him. He stumbles, catching himself on a nearby tree and shuffles a few feet away, breathing hard as he stares back at the older man. Chris and Nathanial catch up to them, looking surprised and confused and worried.

_They shouldn't be worried. Not for you._

“Stiles?” Chris takes a step forward, and Stiles scurries back again, holding out a hand. 

“Don't,” he commands, and Chris stays where he is. “Just...don't.” Stiles makes sure none of them are moving before he wipes at his face, finding tears there. He shifts on his feet, breathing hard. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, leaning back against a tree and pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I thought you'd give up by now.”

There is quiet, and then Peter speaks. Soft and careful, like he's trying not to spook a frightened animal. “Stiles, we would never give up on you.”

Stiles straightens, leaves crunching beneath his feet as he paces. “You should. You don't want me.”

“That's not true,” Chris says, and Stiles barks a sharp laugh.

“Liar, Liar,” he sing-songs, feeling his chest tighten as he sucks in a quick breath. “Pants on fire.” He feels caged, even with the forest surrounding them. He must look insane. 

Stiles stops and closes his eyes, grinding his teeth and shaking his head. His little voice isn't supposed to say things out loud. “Do you know how many men have fucked me over the last year?” He can feel anger growing in his gut, bubbling up into his lungs and throat. “How many sexually-repressed guys have demanded I call them 'daddy'?” 

He opens his eyes again. Peter looks livid. Chris looks sad.

_They don't want you. _

“You don't want me.”

_You're broken._

“I'm broken.”

_You're used._

“I'm used.”

_You're nothing._

“I'm...”

_You're nothing._

“I...”

_You're. Nothing._

Stiles strings his fingers through his hair, shaking his head. “I'm not.” He remembers Peter stroking his hair, telling him how beautiful he is. “I'm not.” He remembers Chris sharing a milkshake with him and laughing when they both got brain freeze. “I'm not, I'm not, I'm not.” He remembers warm nights pressed between his soulmates, happy and wanted and loved. “Stop it.”

Stiles's fingers graze over something at the base of his skull, and he stops breathing.

“Stiles?” Chris's voice breaks. The young man can see the turmoil there. He wants to make it better, make everything right again. 

But something is wrong. 

He strides to Nathanial with determined steps, kicking up leaves as he does, and grabs the man's hand. He doesn't trust himself. He doesn't trust Peter and Chris not to tell him what he wants to hear. 

He presses the doctor's fingers against the raised spot behind his head, staring at the man desperately. “I'm not crazy, am I?” he begs, watching the man's brow furrow as he palpates the spot gently. “I'm not crazy?”

Nathanial goes over the spot several times before shaking his head. “I feel it, Stiles,” he confirms, and Stiles lets loose a shaky breath. “You're not crazy, I promise.”

_Liar, Liar._

Stiles sniffles and wipes at his sweaty face. “Okay. Okay, just...keep telling me that. Because I don't believe it yet.”

“Stiles,” Chris says softly, “can I...?” 

The young man breathes harshly into the quiet of the trees, swallowing and nodding and trying so very hard not to move away when Chris approaches him. Chris places his fingers where Nathanial's were, searching and frowning when he finds the spot.

“Shit.” He looks at Peter with worry. “It feels like a chip.”

Peter grazes the spot with warm fingers. Stiles closes his eyes and gasps at the sensation. He remembers Peter's fingers. Everywhere. Every inch of him. 

The Alpha drops his hand, and Stiles mourns the loss of contact. “What do we do?”

“I have a scanner in my bag,” Nathanial says clinically, lips pursing as he plans. “After I have a look, I'll see if I'm able to remove it safely here. But if it's too advanced, it's possible we might have to take you to the hospital, Stiles.”

Stiles nods. He's in a daze. If he thinks too much, the voice starts chiming in with its own terrible opinion.

xvi.

The device in his head is crude, almost laughable. But Stiles is worried. How could something so simple affect him like this? Make him hear what he thought was his own subconscious?

“In less-advanced systems, the chip is designed to keep the subject docile,” Chris explains grimly. “It prevents them from questioning orders, essentially makes them a slave. Your programming, advanced as it is, is distorting the chip's natural intentions, making you hear a voice that isn't there.” He wipes a hand over his mouth then puts his hands on his hips. “I should have known to check for that. Stiles...I'm so sorry.”

“They're highly illegal and very hard to get a hold of nowadays, especially here in the 'States,” Nathanial replies. “There's no reason to have checked for something like that, Chris. Advanced equipment like yours isn't designed to search for out-dated technology.”

“Why...” Stiles starts, swallowing thickly when all three men turn their attention to him. “Why haven't I noticed it before now? I mean, it's not like it's all that hidden.” He reaches up and searches for the chip again, frowning when his fingers can't find it.

Chris carefully reaches forward and guides the young man's fingers over the raised spot again. “It has a camouflage processor. It's designed to make you forget where you find it, or make you think there's nothing there at all.”

“Oh,” Stiles says simply, realizing that as Chris takes his hand away, he's already straining to remember, remember.

_Forget, Forget._

Peter puts an arm around Chris's waist. It's the first real touch Stiles has seen them exchange since being brought home. “Is it dangerous to remove?”

“It can be,” the doctor admits. “It depends on how well it was installed. The better the installment, the easier it will be to remove.” He looks at the young man with several questions in his eyes. “We can do this right now, Stiles. I have some anesthetic with me. It'll take ten minutes, at most. You won't even need to go to sleep.”

Stiles is already nodding before the other man finishes. “Please,” he begs.

_You'll still never be enough for them._

_You're filth._

_You're nothing._

“Please do it now.”

xvii.

He sits in a kitchen chair, the table to his left, Nathanial behind him, and Chris and Peter crouched in front of him. His chin is lowered to his chest, and his heart is racing. 

“Just breathe, Stiles,” Nathanial encourages. “Close your eyes and count your heartbeats.” 

Stiles closes his eyes, but the noise in his head keeps him from concentrating on anything. 

_Worthless. _

_Useless. _

_Stupid._

He clenches his jaw and shifts in the seat. 

“I'm going to need you to stay very still,” the doctor says. 

“Sorry,” Stiles whispers.

Chris and Peter squeeze his hands.

“We're right here, baby.”

“It's going to be okay.”

Stiles feels the pressure of the incision and winces. “Does it hurt?” Chris asks at the same time that Peter squeezes his hand, more than likely trying to take his pain.

_You'll never be rid of me, Stiles._

_You don't deserve them._

_They don't want you._

“No,” Stiles says quietly, swallowing hard as the backs of his eyes sting. “It's just...loud.”

Chris shifts, his free hand finding Stiles's knee. The younger man tries not to flinch away from the contact. “Do you remember our first date?”

The question throws Stiles off for a moment. But then he smiles. “We went to the state fair. I ate _so much_ cotton candy.” He sighs. “You wore that soft blue shirt that always smells like the cologne I accidentally-on-purpose spilled on it.” The older men chuckle. “Peter wore those skinny jeans that make his ass look amazing.”

“Darling, my ass looks amazing in _anything_ I wear,” Peter counters.

“And anything you don't wear,” Chris adds.

Stiles laughs, and the noise is almost desperate. “Chris kissed me on the Ferris Wheel,” he says, his bottom lip trembling as tears start to squeeze their way out of his closed eyes. “Peter kissed me after I won that stupid bear.” It's still on a shelf in their bedroom. “And you kissed each other on the Carousel. They played _Daisy, Daisy_.” He shakes as he tries to hold the sobs in.

“One more minute, Stiles,” Nathanial says softly. “Almost done. You're doing so well.”

Peter and Chris wipe his face. 

_They regret ever knowing you._

“We love you, Stiles,” Peter says. 

_You can't trust anything they say._

“We love you so much,” Chris says. 

_Hate you, Hate you._

“Come back to us, baby.”

_Liars, Li—_

Stiles's world disappears.

xviii.

It's like waking from a dream.

No. A nightmare.

He can hear the snores of the other cyborgs around him. He can feel the scratch of the shitty blanket he'd been given to sleep on. He can smell the god-awful slop they serve them twice a day. 

Peter and Chris were such a lovely, lovely dream. Why can't he just sleep for a few more minutes...?

Consciousness blooms in his head, slowly at first, and then all at once. _Not a dream,_ he tells himself. _Wake up, it's not a dream._ He sits up with a gasp, blinking away the sting of sunlight. 

“Stiles?”

His gaze swivels. He's in a bed. _His_ bed. _Their_ bed. And Chris and Peter are there in front of him, watching him with hope and dread. 

They're so, so beautiful. 

Stiles reaches forward with shaking hands, holding his breath until his fingers graze stubbled jaws. 

Chris and Peter.

His soulmates.

The young man stares at them in wonder, tears flooding his eyes. It feels like the first time he met them. Like the first breath he took as a soulmate. _Their_ soulmate.

God, how could he have forgotten this feeling?

“Stiles, are you all right?” Peter asks, fingers gently curling around the young man's wrist. 

Stiles opens his mouth, but his throat closes around his voice, chokes the words from him. 

“Baby, say something,” Chris pleads. 

The young man draws in a sharp breath. “You found me.” He tries to smile, but holding back a sob turns it into a grimace. “I'm so sorry.”

Chris and Peter gather him between them, holding him tightly and whispering soothing words. 

“You have nothing to be sorry about.”

“We're so glad you're home.”

Stiles braces himself, closes his eyes tight in anticipation of the voice that contradicts everything they say. Everything he tells himself. 

There's nothing but quiet. 

Stiles cries harder. 

xix.

He tells them everything, from the moment he was taken to the moment he saw his beautiful men standing in _ The Red Den_. The sordid details in between those moments make him want to vomit. Peter looks murderous, and Chris looks like he already has a plan to find every person who dared touch Stiles, let their Alpha tear them limb from limb. 

Stiles isn't exactly opposed to the idea. 

They lay in bed, pressed against each other and reveling in their healing bond, until Stiles's stomach growls. Peter jumps up immediately, ever-eager to provide for his small, well-loved pack. 

Stiles wants pancakes. But only if they can all go to the kitchen together. 

He sits on the counter by the stove, watching his men move around each other with a grace the young man doesn't possess himself but always appreciates—like his own personal ballet. 

They smell so good. 

The pancakes. 

Chris and Peter do, too. 

But Stiles is hungry for pancakes at the moment. Maybe later he can convince them to put their mouths on every inch of his body. Re-claim him as their own. Make him believe he's really home. 

Peter's pancakes taste like heaven. 

xx.

Peter is gone the next day. 

When Stiles asks, Chris tells him that their Alpha has business. The young man doesn't push, knows Peter is dealing with things the only way he knows how. 

So Stiles and Chris spend the day weeding in the garden and making out on the couch and trying a new muffin recipe with the wildberries from the bushes in the backyard. 

But mostly the making out part. 

And when Peter comes home—not a single hair out of place—to find them curled around each other, Stiles stretches out his arms and draws his brave, beautiful Alpha to himself and kisses him over and over until his tongue feels raw. 

He begs his men to fuck him, take back what's theirs, and they do. Slow and sweet and lovely. 

Stiles shakes and writhes in their bed, biting his lips to hold back the tears. 

Not of pain. 

Not of shame. 

Of ecstasy 

Of remembrance. 

Of love. 

Most of all, love.

**Author's Note:**

> There it is!! My second Stetopher fic!! Oh, gosh, these silly boys make me so, so happy. Like, ridiculously. I'm sure not everything is all rainbows and cupcakes just yet for these loves, but I hope it's implied that things are on the mend! 
> 
> I know I was vague about Stiles's accident, and I'm sure you're wondering why they chose to make Stiles a cyborg instead of Peter just turning him into a wolf..I just had so much fun writing this, and I would love to make it into a series that will answer a lot more later!! 
> 
> Friend, have an amazing day! You deserve good things!!! :D


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